


And therefore built forever

by mazily



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-26
Updated: 2007-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," Bob says, and Spencer laughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And therefore built forever

**Author's Note:**

> "The city is built  
> To music, therefore never built at all,  
> And therefore built forever."
> 
> —Tennyson, _The Idylls of the King_

Tympani and cymbals fade to muted brushes on a snare drum, a syncopated jazz-conga fusion that crawls under Gerard's skin and settles, stays, grounds him like pressing his fingers to the purple-green bruise on his shin where he bumped it on the edge of the bunk. "Rain rain go away," he sings, half-whispered to match the day, "Come again some other day." He pulls his blanket up and over his head, watches it float up like a parachute before landing against his skin.

The bus rumbles on. Gerard slips in and out of sleep--flying between raindrops, resting on clouds--and smiles when he hears Frank giggling. Saying, "No, no, you know you're my number one fan" to someone (to Jamia, who is probably laughing and telling him, "That's it, we're over, I'm going to go be a Fall Out Boy groupie now"). No noise from Ray, which isn't unexpected; he's been working on a secret project for over a week now, holed up in the studio, only stumbling out for food and sound check and, when someone drags him out by the fro, sleep. Nothing from Mikey, either, and Gerard has to forcibly restrain himself from worrying. Mikey's probably still marathon-texting with Alicia; his silence is probably, actually, a good thing.

There's laughter coming from Bob's bunk: two voices, low and lazy. Gerard shakes his head, his thoughts tumbling loose, and rubs his eyes. Spencer's visiting. He'd almost forgotten. Spencer's visiting while his band's on a two-week break, and Bob's smiles have been bigger, more crinkly-eyed, sated and happy. There's a thump, a, "fuck, Spence," and something falls to the ground and cracks. Gerard doesn't have the energy to move, to look; whatever it is, chances are that either Bob or Spencer will be able to fix it anyway.

A moan, a slapping sound, and, "Shhh," Spencer says, "shhh."

"'S'okay," Bob says. His voice is focused, steady except when it skips, sudden breath and gasping. Another thump, thump, and the sound of skin sliding against skin. "No one's here, okay, no one's here. It's just you and me, the bus is empty, everyone's off doing, uh, stuff, so, it's okay."

"Yeah, okay." Spencer's voice is rough, scratchy. "Just you and me."

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," Bob says, and Spencer laughs. Bob laughs, gasps, says, "fuck, oh."

Gerard closes his eyes, holds his hands over his ears, but he can't stop picturing them in his mind. Skin flushed, hair sweaty and Bob's is probably falling into his eyes. So Spencer has to push it back, his fingers sliding against Bob's face, and maybe Bob bites his lip. Hisses. Maybe his hand slides down Spencer's back, reaching to cup his ass; maybe his hand reaches back, scrapes against the wall behind his head.

Spencer's neck is arched, Gerard can just imagine it, and Bob won't be able to stop himself from licking. From biting. Marking Spencer so, come breakfast or lunch or whenever they leave Bob's bunk, everyone in the band will see. Bob's the silent type--he honestly hates the cameras and the attention and the media; he really does prefer being behind the scenes guy, and it's only that he loves playing the drums more that keeps him from quitting the band altogether some days--but he's also a bit of an exhibitionist, among friends, when the only camera in sight's a beat-up old Polaroid. Gerard's only surprised that he didn't guess it sooner.

It's warm in Gerard's bunk, almost stifling, light leaking in between the threads of the black sheet still over his head. Rain continues to tap dance on the roof of the bus. There's a song in that, in this, in the warmth and the grey and the rain, in Spencer's soft sighs and Frank rummaging through the cupboards, singing, "pop tarts, pop tarts, yummy blueberry pop tarts." Gerard inhales, holds the air in his lungs until he can't anymore, controls the exhale with a hand pressed against his diaphragm.

Licks his lips. They taste like wax and fake cherries and blood.

"Fuck," Bob says, "don't you fucking." He moans, too loud and then too soft, like he's trying to swallow it back inside himself.

Gerard bites his lip. Tries to convince himself to pull out his noise-canceling headphones, to listen to The Misfits turned all the way up. Presses his hands to his eyes, focusing on the stars bursting out from the darkness. He moves his hands to the wall behind his head, and the world shimmers back.

He's half-hard, more possibility than anything else. Anticipatory. He presses his hands against the wall, flexes his toes. A whole body shudder to match Bob's low-pitched moan, and Gerard focuses on the strain of his muscles. On the feel of his skin wrapped too tight around blood and bone. His legs shake.

Spencer gasps.

Gerard concentrates on the brush of the sheets against his bare legs. He tries to ground himself, to think about comics and costumes and anything but the this. He doesn't want to be this guy. It's not like he's never gotten off to the sound of one of the guys having sex--they've lived in close quarters for most of their adult lives, it's pretty much inevitable--but this seems wrong, somehow. More invasive. Gerard thinks that he should be better than this. Stronger.

The first step is admitting that you're powerless.

Against: a thump; rustling; flesh against flesh, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to hear. Swallowed syllables turning to moans.

The pictures in his head are in full technicolor splendor. Bob biting the back of Spencer's neck, skin red and flushed. Spencer holding Bob down, muscles straining beneath baby-smooth skin. A series of images, contradictory and varied, and maybe Gerard's a horrible person, but he can't stop himself from imagining them. Can't stop himself from thinking that Bob will lick the sweat from Spencer's shoulder; that Spencer will be rough, all sharp teeth and nails, that he will have no mercy. Bob will shudder as he comes. Spencer will smile, shark-like, before he follows.

"Love," Bob says, and Spencer answers, "yes, you, fuck."

Gerard can't swallow. Breathe. He sits up, half-choking, and bumps his head against the roof of the bunk.

Fumbles around, tossing blankets and pillows and dirty clothes until he finally finds his iPod hiding under a sketch pad and a bag of markers. His headphone wires are a tangled mess, thanks to Bob's most recent impromptu knot-tying demonstration, and he sits, legs crossed, and picks at the knots with sweat-slick fingers. He bites his lip. Curses under his breath.

When there's finally enough slack in the wires, he pulls the headphones over his ears and sets his iPod to shuffle. There's a soft click, a moment of silence before the drums kick in and the baseline begins to hum beneath his skin. Gerard rescues the pad and markers from a pile of smelly t-shirts, and, hands barely even shaking, he begins to draw.

(Outside his bunk, beyond the curtain, life goes on. Maybe someone laughs. The rain stops. The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round.)


End file.
